Howdy folks, and welcome back for Part 3 of our musical interlude. If you’re just joining us, you may wish to start with Part 1. Otherwise, enjoy the music!
Music to Murder By
"You think the German had these guys working for him?"
"Hitler and Mussolini are pals, they tell us. Maybe."
"Does that tell us anything else?" I asked.
"It tells us where to start looking. The Big Man. Joe Mangione. If he doesn't know where to look for that German joker, I don't think anyone would."
***
Micki Marteau
Watching Slade work was interesting. Two blocks from the scene, with shouts and police whistles fading behind us, he limped into an alleyway. Partway down, he turned to a door that I hadn't seen. An arcane series of knocks later it opened.
"Whaddya want, Slade? And who's the doll?"
"I wanna talk to Joey. The lady is my business, and none of yours."
The small mountain blocking the doorway grunted at that. "Joey's busy. With his business. Why don't you come back tomorrow? Or maybe next Tuesday?"
"Giorgio…why don't you ask him that? Tell him it's about—"
"Nah, Slade." I flipped the switch. "Let me at Giorgio, here," I purred. "I've got ways to make a man talk." I put some extra sway in my walk, as I eased up to the big lug. Unlike the engineer, I could tell I was having an effect. The blood running to his face glowed like the sun on a warm day. Warmed a girl right through. I brushed him a little here, and a little there.
"Wha...wha…?" For some reason, he couldn't seem to get his words out.
"Let my friend Slade in, won't you Giorgio, dear?" I breathed just a little bit extra as I whispered in his ear.
"Right, doll, right!" He opened the door wide, then grabbed a handful of me, right between the gams and the gats and pulled me up against him. His breath stank of cheap red and rancid garlic. "But you don't have to go in, dollface… youse can stay right here…" That's always a risk.
Lucky me, that come-on was Micki's secret pat-down. I casually pulled his own shiv from his belt. Shing! I held the stiletto tip under his chin. "Lemme say it flat out. You let us in nice and quiet, or you're never making noise again. Get me, Georgie?"
"Slade, what kind of snake'd you bring in here?"
"Don't you worry about that," Slade said, calm as could be. "We ain't after you, we ain't after Joey. We just need to talk to him."
"Fine." He moved like to point. "Right through there."
"Uh-uh. You go first. Keep your flippers off the hardware. Feel free to signal your friends for help, though, if you have any. Just remember: you die first."
We followed him into a glitzy private club. Rich smell of cooking steak and onions. White tablecloths, the gleam of real silver, and clink of china. All that jazz might've impressed me when I was fresh off the farm, but by now I'd seen plenty. The slime I had to look at across the table generally ruined the effect. Give me cream cheese on toast and a cuppa java.
"And a one. And a two. And a one, two, three…" The band leader counted the beat. A sax started in first, smooth and oily. I still glowed from working the doorman, but this woke something down deep. When the drummer joined, I felt an electric tingle right to my toes.
Joe Mangione, alone at his table, sat on a piano bench and overflowed both sides of it. He was working on one strip steak and had another waiting. His chalkstripe suit looked more like mattress ticking, covering that bulk. His jowly little bullet head turned our way on a neck like a flower pot.
"Matt Slade! What brings you in? I thought you was too good to bring your women around us. But then this dame don't look like your type."
His women? His type?
"This is business, Uncle Joe," Slade said.
"Then grab a chair. Chairs. Drink?"
"Thanks." He took a glass, but just held it, didn't take a drink. "Micki here," Slade jerked his thumb at me, while I was still sitting, "is a kind of girl G-man. I'm working for her. We ran into a couple of 'poor orphan boys,' the kind maybe benefited from your charity one time or another, tonight."
"Ran into?" The jolly fat man act disappeared.
"Yeah. Ran into."
"You're here, but I don't see them."
"That's right."
"You got a lot of nerve, Slade. Tell me a thing like that to my face."
"I didn't know they were your boys, not until after. One muzzle flash looks a lot like another in the dark."
"So, you come to what, apologize?"
"Not really, Joe."
"Then what?"
"I need to know who they were working for."
"Didn't you just say they were working for me?"
There was something going on here, something deep. I wasn't sure of all the currents, but I sure hoped Slade had more in his hand than I thought he did. As I scanned the bar, it seemed like a small army of "poor orphan boys" were watching the high table intently.
"Of course not, Uncle Joe. I said they might have worked for you at one time. Big difference. Maybe they went their own way, maybe they found a new boss."
Red anger like a rising sun flashed into the fat face. "A new boss? Only way my boys leave is—"
"Joe, Joe… gently there. I'm saying these boys might have. Because it would be easier for everyone if that was the truth."
"What is it you want, then?" Something in his voice reminded me of thin rocky dirt thrown over a pine box.
"I want to know who they were working for tonight. Not one of your boys. This boy probably clicks his heels and says 'Heil!' a lot. That kind of boy."
I saw my moment. "That kind of boy is…unpopular. Doesn't make friends with my...people. You wouldn't want people to think you were connected to…" I trailed off. He seemed to remember the vague hint Slade had given. He didn't know who I was, but he didn't need federal trouble. Glassware tinkled, and the sounds of the other diners suddenly seemed much quieter, as he locked eyes with me. I'd looked at lots of powerful men. This one didn't faze me.
"You know, Slade, Miss… I might could help you. Weiss…"
**
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